


Medicine

by littlebodyheavysoul



Series: Hidden [2]
Category: Medicine - Harry Styles (Song)
Genre: Album: Harry Styles (Harry Styles), F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 12:15:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20975753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlebodyheavysoul/pseuds/littlebodyheavysoul
Summary: My eyes fall onto the necklace he never seems to take off these days, something he hasn’t let me take a look at for a while now, for whatever reason. He must’ve forgotten he was wearing it in this moment, because it’s in clear sight, and I can now see why he’s been hiding it from me.





	Medicine

**Author's Note:**

> I've written this for a project of a friend of mine. I'm not going to elaborate on that, I purely chose to publish my writing for fun.
> 
> The tags I've used are out of necessity, I've also written this while listening to Harry Styles' album.
> 
> The work title is the title of the song that I relate to the story that I'm telling. Listening to said song might be helpful to understand the context, it is not needed, though.
> 
> Everyone mentioned in my writing is real, these things have all happened in one form or another, and this is being used as a personal archive.
> 
> Kudos and Comments are appreciated, those can be left anonymously at the very end of the page.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

15 // 2014

It’s been exactly one hour and forty-three minutes since he’s last spoken to me. He stayed silent in the car when we drove to the house, he didn’t say a word during the debriefing with the crew, and when I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into our room to start taking care of his bruises, he let me, but refused to so much as glance at me. And now here we are.

I’m dabbing an alcohol soaked cotton pad at a particularly deep cut on his shoulder, wondering if it will require stitches, when he first speaks up.

“I hate when you follow us on trips like these,” he mutters, winces when I purposefully press a little too hard.

“Tough shit,” I say, stoic, stubborn. I know where this is going and I don’t like it one bit.

I can feel his eyes roll before he even does it, and he shrugs me off, my hands no longer on his body. He gets up and drives his hands through his hair, turns around to look at me. “I’m serious. I’m sick and tired of this bullshit.”

I shrug carelessly, tossing away the soiled cotton pad. I grab another and douse it in liquid, before gripping his muscular arm and making him sit down in front of me, he lets me without complaint. I press it to another wound I see and ignore the hiss he lets out. “Oh, don’t be a big baby.”

We fall silent, then, he knows that this is a discussion that leads to nowhere. I may be young and I may be dumb, but I’m the most stubborn person in the team, my word is law and I made sure everyone knows that. If someone doesn’t like it, they can take it up with the Blues. They’re backing me too strongly for anyone to dare to talk back, anyways.

“Take your shirt off, I can’t reach any further,” I command, and he does so without looking at me. I can see a couple of bruises forming, but nothing major, not as bad as it could’ve been. My eyes fall onto the necklace he never seems to take off these days, something he hasn’t let me take a look at for a while now, for whatever reason. He must’ve forgotten he was wearing it in this moment, because it’s in clear sight, and I can now see why he’s been hiding it from me.

Next to the cross that’s always hanging across his chest is a bullet, as big as my pinky finger. It has a hole at the very top where he looped the necklace through, its gold color shining threateningly, surely jingling with every step.

I reach out to take it into my hand when realization downs upon him, but it’s too late. I already know. His eyes widen and he looks at me with so much pain in his eyes, an apology ready on his lips, but I shush him.

“You kept it,”is all I say, and his confirming nod makes my eyes fill with tears.

I’m instantly taken back to that one horrific night, one I will never forget in my life. Thinking about it makes my blood run cold, I’d never been so scared like in those short couple moments.

You see, being reckless and having fun and being young and feeling invincible are all feelings that make life seem so worthwhile, it lessens the fear of growing up and entering the real world. But when your recklessness makes you find yourself in the wrong crowd, a situation you cannot escape from, you are forced to realize just how short life really is, and that, in a blink of an eye, everything can be taken from you. All it takes is being at the wrong place, at the wrong time. 

All I remember now is the screaming, the running, someone pushing me down a flight of stairs before the gunshots began. When I came to, I was being carried in someone’s arms, before I could make out who the person was I passed out again. Next came the waking up and the feeling of panic settling in. I was at the house, in my bed, but I refused to stay seated. My vision blurring when I ran through the entire building in search for him, looking at all these glum faces, nobody wanted to tell me what was going on. By the time my brother reached me, I had already driven myself insane with assumptions. He was hit. Someone shot him. In this small town, usually quiet, good to live in, someone saw us and decided to start a chase. And they shot him. Nobody knew why, the police was as useless as ever, we were completely on our own, and he got shot. The waiting game was what killed me the most, the uncertainty, he lived, but how well would he recover?

And then came the revelation. It was supposed to be me. They ran after _me_. He pushed me out of the way to hide me, and they got him, but it was supposed to be me. Paranoia that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

I snap back to the present moment when I feel his hand on my face, wiping away the tear I let slip. “Hey, c’mon,” he whispers and takes me into his arms, hugging me tight and stroking my hair. “It’s fine. They kept it, asked me what I wanted to do with it, so I took it home with me. Dan thinks it was a dumb idea, but I felt like I had to.”

I pull away slightly and examine the object further, squinting when I see some writing on it. My initials. He got my initials engraved into the godforsaken thing.

“You’re out of your mind,” I whisper, but I smile nonetheless.

“Who knows this story?”

“Nobody,” I reply honestly, “it’s a useless one to be told.”

“I just don’t want you to get into any trouble,” he explains, “I do worry about you.”

I chuckle humorlessly. “That’s funny, because you’re the one that got me into this mess.” It’s a low blow and I know it, but I’m too angry to care right now.

“And I regret it every day.” He sighs and gets up, putting his arms around me and kissing my cheek. “We’re off to Russia soon anyway, you’ll never have to see me again.”

I huff in frustration. “Doesn’t make it better, you asshole. You all have grown on me. Like a rash.”

That makes him laugh, and I can’t help but giggle as well. “You’re crazy, Miller. Come on now, let’s get some food, shall we? I’m starving.”

I fiddle with the necklace for one more minute, before smiling up at him. “Yes, _солдат_ . Let’s.”

And, indeed, I never ever saw him again.

**Author's Note:**

> I know you still worry about me and you look down at me from the clouds you're laying in, making sure I'm always safe. I'll see you in paradise, my angel.


End file.
